


stare death in the face (and never back down)

by ingenious_spark, Lidoshka



Series: seize hope in your own two hands [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family, Gen, Healing, Heist, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Nudity, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, Mental Health Issues, Misunderstandings, Not Eöl-Sympathetic, Oath of Fëanor, Past Child Abuse, Period-Typical Medicine, Psychological Torture, Recovery, Revenge, Rules-Lawyering, Semantic Debate, Silmarils, Survival, Theft, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-06 10:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15883818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingenious_spark/pseuds/ingenious_spark, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lidoshka/pseuds/Lidoshka
Summary: Maeglin uses his mother's techniques to survive his torture at the hands of Sauron. He does not break. He survives, and pulls something impossible off as revenge.Maeglin steals a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown, and gets away with it.





	stare death in the face (and never back down)

**Author's Note:**

> Written and illustrated for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang.
> 
> Written by ingenious_spark/@oopsbirdficced  
> Illustrated by Lidoshka/@lidoshka
> 
> A couple of notes before you begin:
> 
> Maeglin refers to himself as Lómion throughout this fic. He refers to Sauron as Gorthaur. This is not an Eöl-friendly fic. Quenya names are used with the 'c' spelling. Illustrations are embedded.
> 
> Please enjoy!!!

Lómion has been a guest in Gorthaur’s care for a while now. He's not sure how long. His cruelty is remarkable, and some vague part of Lómion admires that depth of cruelty for its own sake. He had been delivered into Gorthaur’s tender care in a desperate attempt to save his own life, and now he's not wholly certain it had been worth it. Maybe it might have been better to die after all. He could have seen Mother again… 

He shivers, the chains he's bound in clattering. Manacles about his wrists connect to a hard iron band about his throat, and the chains between his hands and his neck are too short for his arms to relax down all the way. There's a chain linking his wrists as well, about a foot in length. His legs are also manacled, with a stiff iron bar between his ankles, keeping them uncomfortably apart. He's not allowed any clothing to warm him in the cold, hard cell he sleeps in. Even when his torturers are absent, their cruelty remains with him.

He's learning, though. Gorthaur likes it when he screams and begs for mercy. If he does, Gorthaur gives him little ‘rewards’. Working in the forges, for one, though he's only allowed an apron, boots, and gloves for that. The bare minimum of protection.

When Lómion reduces himself to helpless, pitiful sobbing, and acts grateful for any cessation of torment, Gorthaur lets him work alone, with only a pair of orc guards at the door. The orcs are not intelligent- or maybe they just aren't interested, because under their not so watchful eyes, he is assembling something built from spite and hatred.

Morgoth has attended his torturing before, and Lómion had flinched away from the terrible light of the jewels set in his volcanic glass and iron crown. That had made them both laugh, pitying and gentle. Morgoth had teased Gorthaur, and Gorthaur had preened under the attention. Lómion had been hard-pressed not to prematurely vomit at the display.

Gorthaur knows he isn't yet broken. But Lómion has learned his entire life to give people what they want, while keeping part of himself safely locked away. Gorthaur thinks he is far more broken than he really is, thinks that all the attempts at pretty trinkets Lómion crafts in between working on his vengeance are gifts to ask for mercy. He never seems to think to look in the scrap metal barrel- it's never been emptied, not yet, it's all the material he has to work with, but it's safer than the embers or the ash bucket, which are emptied on a regular basis.

Lómion’s lack of ability in crafting pretty trinkets and jewelry seems to amuse Gorthaur. Such a pitiful excuse for a smith of the Ñoldorin houses, that he cannot even make jewelry. He bites back the retorts that he is a  _ weapon _ smith, one who forges arms and armor, as well as those kinds of supports and tools one needs for mining and refining metals. The tools of the House of the Mole.

In a fit of pique, Lómion crafts Gorthaur a set of torturers’ tools, ones he has been threatened with, ones that have been used on him. Gorthaur is charmed with them, and he's allowed a bath- freezing cold, but a rare luxury, to be even briefly clean. He's given a meal more hearty than his usual fare, and a day in the workshop Gorthaur has set aside for him. He makes good progress on his vengeance that day. The next day, when Lómion is brought in and laid out on Gorthaur’s table, the tools the he uses on Lómion are those he crafted, and Gorthaur takes great pleasure in telling him how much he likes them, how he tried them out first on a pretty Second-Born woman. How delightfully she screamed and wept and bled and, finally, when Gorthaur was bored with her, died.

That nearly breaks him, he nearly loses himself for real. But he holds on, his mind going to the quiet place deep inside himself, where everything is cool and calm and painless and silent while his body screams and cries and bleeds.

His mother had taught him that trick, to take the mind away from the body, to a place where nothing can bother him. It had initially been for all the times when his father had punished him for losing his temper, or talking back. Eöl had never touched him to hurt him- never really touched him at all- but there are other ways to cause pain. Ways Lómion hadn't even been aware of until later, until he had left his father's care. 

It had taken a long time to come to terms with the fact that Eöl hadn't loved him. That he'd seen him as a tool with which to keep Aredhel by his side, caught up in his web of magic and trickery, in a mocking semblance of a loving family. It still hurts. He doesn't even know if his mother had loved him. Her death had left him torn with doubt. Had she given her life truly, that he might live? Or had Aredhel seen a final way out, an escape none could drag her back from?

With the depth with which he loves his mother, those doubts gnaw at Lómion’s soul. He loves his mother more than anyone else in the world. Sometimes he wonders if that makes him no better than his father. If Aredhel had seen him, too, as someone to escape. But then, his logical mind argues, why had she taken him with him, had that been the case?

Gorthaur doesn't really know much about his family situation, and Lómion strives to keep it that way. His parents are both dead, and that's all he will tell him about them, diverting instead to ire over his treatment in his uncle's city, of the loveliness of his cousin, of her spurning of his affection. He pretends that his living family is more important to him than his dead. Lómion gives Gorthaur enough information on them to be satisfied- his father had been disappointed in him, and his mother, according to his father, had spoiled him.

Lómion comes to understand Gorthaur’s plans for him. He's using him to destroy Gondolin. Pretty, perfect Gondolin, whom no one is allowed to leave. 

He hates Gondolin. Not in the way that he hates his father, for not loving him and for trapping his mother, or even in the way that he hates Gorthaur, much more straightforward and easy to manage. Gondolin had been a promise of safety that had not come to pass. Gondolin is where he became an orphan. Gondolin is a cage, wrapped up like paradise, where the people, at best, pity Lómion. There's not much he hates more than pity, and the people of Gondolin have it in spades.

It's just so  _ horrible _ , what had happened to his mother. That she had been kidnapped like that, ensorcelled like that, forced to consent to bear a child like that. As if Lómion is supposed to apologize for  _ existing _ . 

Those that don't pity him hate him, or fear him. After all, elvish children are made of both their mother and their father's souls. And he looks so much like his father-  _ are we sure he has any of his mother in him? Are we sure that Eöl hadn't perverted the sanctity of childbirth even more with his strange, corruptive magic? Is Eöl even Sindar, that seems suspicious, are we certain he hadn't been of the Avari? Those dark magics certainly shouldn't come from anyone _ civilized _ , after all. _

Gondolin is a refuge that has long since turned into a civil, mock-friendly nightmare for Lómion. Uncle Turgon merely shakes his head and sighs, and tells him he is definitely his mother's son, when Lómion tells him he needs to leave. It's a small comfort, though Turgon means it as something to worry over, something to be fixed. Turgon doesn't allow him to go either, though.

Gorthaur wishes to destroy Gondolin, and there is a quiet, seething part of Lómion- of  _ Maeglin _ \- that wants to see the city burn. 

Gorthaur tempts him, telling him the sweet revenge he will be able to wreak upon those who have casually, unknowingly and knowingly tormented him. He tells Lómion he will give to him Idril, and Lómion pretends to be eager, follows along in the role Gorthaur wants to see him in, no matter how sick it makes him feel.

He's come to terms with the fact that he will never earn Idril’s affection. Gorthaur’s offer merely puts it in sharper relief, as he realizes why it is that he adores her in the first place. She is like his mother, or how he always imagined his mother might be, free of Eöl. She's beautiful and sweet, opinionated and fierce. He loves Idril as an ideal, not as a real person. It stings.

But he accepts Gorthaur’s offer eagerly, quietly formulating a plot of his own.

Finally they come for him, his vengeance complete and waiting, hidden in a barrel of scraps, along with his decoy. His orcish guards take him to a small room, where they unchain him for the first time in he's not even sure how long. He's allowed a bath, and the water is even slightly tepid, instead of icy cold, and he's given soaps for his body and his hair. They give him back the clothes he had been captured in, and it's strange, to put them on. To hide the evidence of his torment under soft, pretty cloth. Additionally, he's been given a small, misshapen leather satchel with several days’ worth of tough jerky, and two large canteens of clean water.

He pauses, and the orcs growl at him, clearly impatient. 

“Am I leaving? To start with Milord Mairon’s plans?” Lómion asks softly, deferential and polite.

“That's the plan, now get moving,” one of the guards growls at him. 

“I have a last gift for him, do you think I could get it? From the workshop?” He asks, making it sound meek and pleading. The orc makes a disgusted sound.

“Make it fast,” the beast growls, dark and guttural, as Lómion is hustled over to his workshop. He fishes out his decoy and his vengeance both. Lómion has lost a considerable amount of weight, and it's simple to slide the gauntlet into his clothes, sliding it around to the back where his cloak will hide the lump of it, right under the satchel he put on beneath the cloak. He turns with the gift, and the orcs hustle him along familiar corridors. 

“My Lord, the elf wanted to see you again.” One of his guards announces with genuine respect. He hadn't thought them capable of that. Gorthaur emerges, a fine eyebrow raised. 

“I have one last gift for you. I hadn't realized we would be moving to put your plans to action quite so soon,” he bows deeply, pulling the dirty scrap of polishing cloth from his last piece of work and offering it with both hands. “I realize my skill is nothing compared to yours, but there are a few things I can make well, and I wanted to show my appreciation.” He lies, eyes lowered. Gorthaur laughs, light and silvery. Lómion represses a shiver of fear at the sound. 

“How droll,” he remarks, taking the gift. Lómion arranges his face into a hopeful, pleased look. The gift is a circlet, metal gleaming and design plain. It would be ugly, perhaps, except for the array of delicate blades forming a kind of fan shape at the front. The knives are as tiny as they are perfect, as weapons are Lómion’s trade. Lómion actually thinks it turned out rather well, all told. It's meant to suggest to Gorthaur that Lómion thinks of him as his king, or prince, or lord, whatever Gorthaur sees fit. It suggests that Lómion is completely broken to his will.

“Your obeisance will serve you well, Maeglin. Now, you know your role. Go and fulfill it.” He says, smiling. Lómion bows deeply once more, and leaves, ensuring that his expression remains pathetically grateful. 

They leave the tunnels and caves of Angband, and Lómion’s first breath of the night air is like clear, cold knives in his lungs, but he relishes it. Even with the smoke, blood, and metal scents that permeate the desolate landscape, the air is clearer than it is underground. It's evident his two orc guards have been ordered to go with him, so he bides his time. They reach the treeline before dawn, and something within Lómion relaxes at the scent of green, living things around him. Even if the trees are stunted and spindly, it feels good to be among nature. 

He waits for a while longer, until sunlight just begins to peek over the horizon, making his guards grumble and squint, obviously made uncomfortable. Then he slips through the trees, losing them with remarkable ease. They're really bad at this, aren't they? It's nearly child’s play to steal an ugly iron dagger and stab them both at the back of the neck, minimum noise and blood spilled. Lómion uses one of their shoddy breastplates to dig them a shallow grave and arranges dead flora over it artfully. Within moments it looks like an innocuous hillock.

Lómion pulls his vengeance on. The gauntlet is as fine as he could make it, fingers beautifully articulated, and studded with chips of malachite, for strength and protection. He had chosen to make a gauntlet to protect himself after seeing Morgoth’s ever-burned hands, and remembering the story of Carcharoth, who burned alive from the inside out after biting off the hand of Beren, and with it, the jewel he held. Lómion starts his way back carefully, obscuring his trail, and the trail they'd left as they entered the trees. He hums, barely audible, a song of deception and silence. It's one he unfortunately knows well, another thing that his mother had taught him.

He slips back into Angband unnoticed. It's the first step in his plan, but before he can go further, he needs to be armed, just in case. It's not too hard to find the repository of items stolen from prisoners and scavenged from the fields of battle. He finds a decent leather pauldron and straps it on, protecting the shoulder that feels a little weak from overwork and Gorthaur’s attentions. He also finds a sword with a moon-bright blade, still fantastically sharp after clear centuries of disuse. The hilt is wrapped in red-dyed leather, cracked in places, but still serviceable. The crossguard is angular and studded with a couple of red stones that reflect an inner light across the metal there. He likes it. 

Luckily it still has a sheath, and he buckles it over his hips, letting decorative crimson strands run over his fingers. How lovely. The blade is etched, very simply, with its name in Tengwar. Aredhel had taught him the language, and he smiles. Whoever had crafted sword and sheath had an eye for simple beauty, one Lómion deeply appreciates.

“Mantinwë, shall we have vengeance?” he mutters, a bare, tiny sound. He leaves her sheathed for now, as that very question had made the blade brighten somehow. A bloodthirsty thing, but not malevolently so, like his father's blade- which should still be in here, shouldn't it? He almost turns back to find it, something tugging at the back of his mind, but it disappears with the heavy, loud tread of booted orc-feet going down the corridor, and he hides, hand achingly tight around the hilt. 

They do not discover him, but the way is fraught with such moments. This is a sort of stroke of luck for him, though, as orcs gossip, and he's picked up the Black Speech enough to understand them somewhat. Through their unwitting instructions, he finds his way to Morgoth’s bedchambers. They are, luckily, empty, and he hides away in the sumptuously spacious closet, keeping his breath soft and shallow. Hiding like this is remarkably easy, given that Morgoth seems to be an incredibly untidy person. Clothes and shoes and jewelry are strewn far and wide around the massive bed and closet. Most of the clothes seemed to be fitted for someone of enormous size, at the very least as tall as a balrog in monstrous form. Lómion thinks this is probably the reason why Angband is built on such vast scale. 

It takes a long time for anyone to show up. Lómion finds himself puzzled by the way that this wait seems eternal, where living in snatched moments against the pain took barely any time at all. Lethargy settles over him like a shroud, and he finds himself drifting off, despite all odds. He wakens with a start to heavy, uneven footsteps tromping into the room, followed by a lighter pair, to his horror. 

“I don't see why I have to listen to all this boring  _ tripe _ .” Someone hisses malevolently. There's a sound like rustling papers. 

“Because if I don't clear everything I try to do by you, Gothmog gets huffy and tells me I'm getting too big for my britches, my Lord.” That voice is familiar, and he breaks into a cold sweat. Gorthaur is here, which makes the other Morgoth. “And because in order to have an army, we must, unfortunately, feed that army. I've located a few supply routes we might ambush, to that end, and I need you to sign off on increasing the hunting parties.”

“But  _ Mai _ ron, you deal with the paperwork so well! Besides, if they need to eat so badly just have them eat the slaves.” He says it in such a bored tone, as though slaves’ lives are so utterly insignificant. And to Morgoth, they probably are. 

“As much as I'd love to sign off on that, we still need the slaves for labor. If you would just sign off on these papers, my Lord, I'll see if done.” Gorthaur sounds strangely patient. Morgoth heaves a huge sigh, and there's the scratch of a pen and more rustling paper.

“Satisfied?” Morgoth snarls.

“Immensely. Though, when was the last time you picked up in here? It's filthy.” There is the sound of shifting fabric, and a garment sails into the closet very near to Lómion, and his breath catches in his chest. A second soft  _ thump _ , and that garment lands even closer, Gorthaur’s footsteps coming closer to the closet and Lómion’s hiding place. He holds his breath in a childish reflex.

“Mairon. I want to  _ sleep _ .” 

“What, I can't even pick up your mess of a room whilst you're getting ready for bed?” 

“Mairon. I'm the embodiment of chaos.  _ I do what I want _ . Now get out.” There's a huffy little sniff from Gorthaur.

“Fine. Sleep  _ well _ , my Lord.” Finally, Gorthaur leaves. There's the sound of soft shifting of fabric and soft  _ flumps _ of clothes hitting the floor, preceded by the heavy rattling  _ thud _ of discarded boots. A body settles into the bed with a loud sigh, and there's a soft rustling- the covers being drawn up, no doubt. Lómion waits until the breathing of the person evens out into the regular cadence of sleep, before stealing cautiously from his hiding place, keeping wary ears and eyes open. 

Morgoth is alone in bed, and Lómion takes care not to look at him for too long a stretch of time. It takes an agonizingly long time for Lómion to make it to the head of the bed, heart beating like the wings of a hummingbird in his chest. Once he gets into place he looks up at the ceiling to ascertain that yes, Morgoth really wears the crown to sleep in, before he silently shreds a piece of cloth from a nearby discarded garment with Mantinwë, and carefully stuffs it in his belt. He then carefully scales the rough, wrought-iron headboard, until he's level with the top of the crown. At this angle, the two Silmarils set into it are small in their settings as seed-pearls, even though he knows each of them is big as his palm.

He can barely reach the settings, but luckily Mantinwë’s blade is thick enough and strong enough that he can very gently bend one, then two prongs back just a little, and that's enough to destabilize the setting, the Silmaril going slightly crooked. After Lúthien and Beren’s miraculous heist, one would think he'd have reinforced the settings of the precious things. Still, at least now he will be symmetrical, which pleases Lómion. He waits, making sure Morgoth hasn't woken from the minute shifting, and when he doesn't stir, Lómion reaches out with his gauntleted hand.

The Silmaril comes free with a tiny scraping noise, and Lómion scrambles, silent and one handed, down to the ground, heart racing. He wraps the gauntlet in the fabric scrap, and ties the bundle tightly to hide the glow of the jewel.

Then, his heart in his throat, he begins to sneak out of Angband. 

It goes perfectly, up until he's slipping into the treeline and someone sees him, shouting and slashing at him with some cruel, claw-gauntleted hand. Bright lines of fire erupt across his arm, spilling bright-red blood, and Lómion wheels to do battle before he can summon more of his foul brethren. This one is a more skilled fighter than the others had been, and Lómion takes blows to both arms, to his legs and to his left side ribs before he's able to decapitate the orc and flee. 

He doesn't bother with stealth at first, and he knows he leaves a trail of blood, hears orcs rallying to chase him. He's still faster than them, though, and he hums out a choppy plea for the forest to help him, to hide him. It works, to a degree. Nearly a day and a half passes before he dares to scale a tree to inspect his wounds.

They've clotted by now, and Lómion fears there's an infection brewing beneath the scabs, as there's probably bits of fabric and whatever was on that one lucky bastard of an orc’s claw gauntlet. He needs fresh water to clean the wounds, but he needs to keep his drinking water for that, drinking. He doesn't think any of the healing herbs he knows grow this close to forsaken Angband. His only choice is to press on, try to find an untainted river.

He does take a chance and unwraps the Silmaril once he's back down on the ground. Lómion flinches from its strange radiance, but raises it aloft, triumphant and sneering back at Angband, still covered in tacky dried blood, clothes rent and torn, Mantinwë gripped tight in his other hand.

“See this, my  _ honorable hosts _ ,” he spits, voice harsh as a raven’s cry. “See the vengeance I have wrought upon you!” Lómion had heard a terrible cry from the depths of Angband partway through the first day of his flight, and that angry cry still echoes around the area. It gives him great and terrible joy, that Morgoth is so enraged by his clever theft. Needless to say, he's still being heavily pursued.

Moment of gloating done, he lays down the scrap of fabric, folded twice for protection, and drops the Silmaril onto it, quickly bundling it up without touching it. He reorganizes his satchel so that the Silmaril is at the bottom, and his meager provisions at the top, and gets down to business.

Lómion is much more careful of his trail now, and vanishes from the angered orcs, until he can no longer hear them traipsing along behind him. He gathers his bearings from the stars, from the sun and the moon, and gathers about how long he's been captured by the season, and again, the stars. It's coming in late summer, warm and humid, with a nip that heralds the beginning of fall. He's been a prisoner of Gorthaur since the beginning of spring. Half a year of his life, gone in the pits.

Lómion knows which way Gondolin lies, and for a moment, his feet stray in that direction, before he thinks better of it and goes the opposite way. He will not bring ruin down upon Gondolin, if only because that is what people have expected him to do, silent and judgemental, nearly his whole life. He owes nothing to that place, and he's better without it.

Taur-nu-Fuin is a dreadful place, and he presses forward as fast as he can push himself, glad he seems already on an easterly track. 

Two or so days later he finds the mountains and follows them east. Lómion finds nourishment in springs trickling from stone, hoping it won't poison his blood further. An infection has set in, slow and toxic, but he still needs clean water. It's still in the early stages, and he keeps a wary eye on how red and swollen the deep slices along his ribs have become. There's no real poison, which is a small mercy. 

He doesn’t take the Pass of Aglon, much as he wants to, but presses on, cutting instead through the rolling hill country of the March of Maedhros, as his mother had called it. He thinks, anyway- a fever has started burning him, and it's making it difficult to think. The hills go on forever, up and down, up and down.

Finally he finds a river, after five days’ constant travel, and he wastes no time in stripping out of his clothes, leaving them in a filthy heap on the riverbank. Before bathing he heads upstream, tasting the water to make sure it's actually clean, before filling his two canteens. He drinks a full canteen and refills it again, before he gets to the business of inspecting the underbrush nearby. 

The foliage here is distressingly familiar, and he suspects, with deep-rooted horror, that this is the river Celon, and he is much closer to Nan Elmoth than he would like to be. Nevertheless, it's not too hard to find the proper healing herbs to grind to paste between two flat, clean river-rocks, and some large leaves to bind over the wound with strips from his bedraggled tunic. Once the paste is made, his voice rusty in the song that will bring out their healing properties, he unsheathes Mantinwë and sits on the grassy bank, wishing he had thought to grab some kind of dagger.

Still, Mantinwë is keenly sharp, and Lómion is flexible enough and dexterous enough to cut open the infected wounds, barely noticing the pain. Pus and blood run down his side in disgusting rivulets, and Lómion sets the blade aside, wiping it clean with the edge of his cloak. He slips into the freezing water, and washes with handfuls of sweet river grass and fine river sand, though he's careful not to get any of either into the wound, letting the current of the water do the lion's share of the cleaning there. He has no oils or soaps for his hair, nor a comb, so he rinses it as clean as he can, braiding it up and out of the way.

As clean as he can make himself, he brushes his fingers over his cut ribs in the flowing water, feeling for any foreign materials in the wound. He plucks free a couple of small scraps of fabric, and slogs back out onto the bank to smear the paste thick over his cuts, and awkwardly bandage himself. He's going to have to air dry. He eyes his dirty clothes with a quiet grimace. Lómion really doesn't want to put those back on. Though maybe he can wash them? There's not much he can do for the tears, though, he has no thread or needle.

He drinks some more water before he wades back into the shallows and starts scrubbing his clothes. They bleed dark grime into the water, and Lómion makes an unhappy face. Disgusting. Once they're running mostly clean he drapes them over the branches of a small tree, and stretches out on the grass. The sun on his skin feels amazing, though he keeps Mantinwë in hand. His eyes close against the light, and sleep drags him under before he can even think of moving into the shade, or not sleeping at all. 

Lómion wakes to an unfamiliar, dark-haired elf kneeling beside him, reaching for his throat, and for a horrifying moment, he thinks it is Eöl. He smacks the man away with a cry, lurching to his feet and drawing Mantinwë with less grace than he'd like, pressing himself back against the tree he'd hung his clothes on. The strange elf doesn't move except to open his palms in front of himself. A gesture that signifies he will not draw a weapon. Belatedly, Lómion realizes that he's surrounded by more strange elves, all of them clad for war. His grip on Mantinwë’s hilt tightens until his knuckles blanch of color.

“We're not going to hurt you. I was only trying to check your pulse. I wasn't sure if you were alive still.” The dark-haired elf meets his eyes, steady and calm, still kneeling in a position that will make it difficult for him to attack. Lómion replays his awakening in his mind and slowly lowers his sword. 

“My apologies,” his voice comes out as harsh as a crows’ call, and he winces and coughs. “I wasn't expecting to see anyone here.” He cautiously creeps forward to take Mantinwë’s sheath from where he had cast it down in his fright, and sheaths the moon-bright blade. A tiny, crooked smile quirks the other elf’s thin lips. 

“To be fair, neither did we. We were approaching to ford the river at a relatively shallow, narrow point, when I saw you. Will you let my healer look you over? You've the complexion of a cooked lobster from the sun.” Lómion touches his face, and winces. He's burned in the sun like an idiot, and his skin is hot and tight… pretty much everywhere. He's probably dehydrated again, to boot. 

“If you've burn ointment to spare I wouldn't turn it away.” He says, trying not to wince more. A tall, burly elf swings down from his saddle, and unslings a satchel that smells of medicine. He produces a large jar, labelled in a delicate, flowing hand. 

“Do you want to put it on yourself, or shall I help you?” The tall elf asks. Lómion is surprised he asked at all. 

“I'd like to do it myself,” he says, quiet and cautious. The elf merely nods and hands over the jar. 

“Don't get any in those cuts of yours. I'd like to look over them, maybe rebandage them, if you'll let me. My name is Veryathor.” He tells Lómion gruffly. He drapes his cloak over Lómion’s unaffected back as a privacy shield, moving slowly, so that Lómion can move away at any given moment. He doesn't, and the thick wool feels strange, but pleasant against his skin.

“I'd be grateful if you could look at my side. I'm not sure I got everything out of it, and it was getting infected before I found the river.” Lómion murmurs. Veryathor hums in agreement.

“If you'll allow it, I'm going to put my hand on your back and start a spell to get that balm working a bit faster.” Veryathor says. Lómion nods cautiously, and feels a broad, heavy hand come to rest lightly between his shoulder blades. His voice is a deep bass rumble, humming a different healing song than the one Lómion knows, and cool, soothing relief washes from where he's applied the ointment. With magic that strong, his sunburn will only last a day or so. He hurries to coat the rest of his burns and let them dry. 

“Élenier,” the first elf says, and an elf built much like Lómion steps forward. “We'll be making camp here for the night. You're about the same build, have you a spare set of clothes you wouldn't mind parting with? I will ensure you are reimbursed.” He says quietly. Lómion peers over his shoulder, drawing the too-long cloak close around him to hide his nudity. 

“Of course, Milord.” The elf says cheerfully, fishing through a pack and pulling out clothes. 

“I have no money,” Lómion says suspiciously, staring at the first elf, as Élenier hands him the clothes and he approaches slowly. 

“I will reimburse her for the clothes from my own purse.” He says with a shrug, offering him the clothes. “Might we know your name?” Lómion takes the clothes and pulls on the wool leggings, the mild pain of the coarser fabric running along burns not even registering, tying the front laces securely. He hands the cloak back, but abstains from putting on the shirt for now. 

“Give me your name, and I will give you mine,” he offers a quiet challenge. Strangely this only makes the other elf smile faintly. 

“I am Caranthir. My host and I march to meet with my brothers, as Doriath has given us cause for conflict. It is my hope that the situation can still be salvaged.” The information is offered freely, more than he had asked for. Lómion nods slowly.

“I am… Lómion. I may yet bring conflict upon you, for I was being pursued by orcs. I believe I lost them, but I could be wrong.” One of Caranthir’s dark eyebrows raises slightly, and again that off, warm smile touches his thin mouth.

“You might call me Carnistir, if that is your name,” he says in Quenya. Lómion is fluent in both, as Turgon had never really observed the language ban set by Thingol. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs in kind. Varyathor clears his throat surprisingly delicately. 

“Lómion, may I check your wounds now?” He asks gruffly, hands already full of soft bandages and jars of medicines. 

“Ah, yes, please,” Lómion says, slightly chagrined. Carnistir gives him another tiny, fleeting smile, and moves away to speak with Élenier again. 

“I need you to ride ahead to my brothers’ camp, and tell them we have been delayed. We should be there tomorrow, if all goes well. And… tell my brother, Tyelcormo, that I want words with him.” Lómion eavesdrops shamelessly, even as he helps Veryathor unwrap his makeshift bandages and wash away the herbal paste. The slashes are looking less inflamed, but Veryathor washes them again anyway, Lómion gritting his teeth against the pain. Élenier mounts up again, urging her horse across the river- and it is shallow here, at the deepest place only coming up to the horse’s shoulders. 

The other soldiers begin turning loose their horses to graze and setting up bedrolls. Carnistir sets up his own bedroll, before tending something near a small cookfire. The air is soon filled with delicious scents, and Lómion’s stomach grumbles pathetically. Veryathor is rather more liberal with his healing pastes and bandages than Lómion had been, gently cleaning out all his injuries, instead of just the ones on his ribs. After a moment he looks up.

“The tunic should be long enough to preserve your modesty, and I'd like to get a look at your legs as well,” Veryathor says, deep voice gentle. Compassionate, not pitying. Lómion nods jerkily, carefully pulling on the tunic- and it is long enough to drape in his lap, so he feels comfortable removing the leggings again. They repeat the process of washing, applying medicine, and bandaging, quick and efficient, but he's glad when he can pull the leggings back on again. He'd been fortunate, that Gorthaur had not seen rape as a necessary part of his breaking process, but he's still uncomfortably aware that it could have been, especially given the fact that he had been constantly naked. There's a frisson of fear in nudity now, even though these folk have proven compassionate and generous where they need not have been. Veryathor nods quietly.

“You're done. You should apply more burn ointment come morning, and I'd like to change your bandages then as well, at least on your ribs. Drink lots of water, please, and eat as much as you can without making yourself sick.” He tells Lómion. He gets the feeling Veryathor knows exactly where he's been, and it makes his insides twist in unpleasant anticipation. 

No one asks, though. Carnistir brings him a bowl of stew, a simple, hearty fare made from root vegetables and jerky, and a hard biscuit. Traveler’s fare. It's unspeakably delicious. Lómion tries very hard not to eat too fast, but by the end his stomach is a little upset. He keeps everything down, curled into a ball with his head on his knees. Carnistir chuckles, but it's a fond noise, not a disparaging one. One hand finds Lómion’s back, beginning to rub in soothing circles, but Lómion flinches from the unexpected touch. Carnistir quickly removes his hand.

“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that,” he says softly. Lómion peeks up at him, and shakes his head slowly. 

“It's okay. I just wasn't expecting it. You could, ah, do that again,” he says shyly. He remembers his mother doing that sometimes. It had been nice. Carnistir nods, and this time Lómion doesn't flinch when he begins to gently rub his back. They sit in silence for a little while, before Lómion turns his head to look more fully at Carnistir. 

“Why aren't you asking me what happened?” He asks, voice a bare murmur. Carnistir glances down at him, his gleaming eyes strange and sad. 

“We've all seen those like you before. Those who have escaped the Pits of Angband and the iron grip of Morgoth’s cruelty. I'm just glad you managed to keep your sanity through all that.” Carnistir says. “There have been those… too far gone, in the past. To whom death was a mercy and a kindness.” His eyes close, as though granting that mercy had been the hardest thing he could do. Before he realizes what he's doing, Lómion reaches out and clasps Carnistir’s free hand in his, squeezing it gently. 

“Thank you for having the strength to be merciful, then.” Lómion says plainly. Carnistir closes his eyes and bows his head, and his return grip on Lómion’s fingers is firm. 

“You should rest, Lómion,” he says finally, lifting his head. “What you have endured steals much strength from the body. My eldest brother went through the same thing.” He says, eyes briefly dark with a distant, healed grief, and pats Lómion’s head briefly. “I will sit watch if you want me to.” Lómion nods, shifting until he's curled on one side facing away from Carnistir, his sword lying between his body and the darkness. He lets his eyes drift half-shut. A question rises before he can stop it.

“Your brother… he lives?” He asks, voice barely audible over the soft sounds of the camp settling. Carnistir chuckles, and a warm hand briefly squeezes his shoulder. 

“He does. Not without pain, not free of strife, but he lives. As will you, Lómion. I will help you, if you ever have need of me.” He promises softly. 

“Why?” Lómion asks drowsily, already half gone. 

“Because my brother would want me to. And I would do anything for my family.” Carnistir says, conviction ringing in his voice, and Lómion frowns sleepily. He's not Carnistir’s family, though… he must have meant his brother, in that case… 

_ Aredhel strokes his hair, humming a sweet lullaby.  _

_ Eöl’s words cut him like knives, and he runs to mother’s side crying.  _

_ She soothes him, hands strangely cold against his skin, and he looks up. Blood drips from her blue-tinged lips, and her eyes are glassy from first the fever the poison had caused, sudden and horrifyingly high, and then from death. Her bruised hands fall still in her lap, and he jumps away with a cry of horror.  _

_ Fire consumes her form, and where she had sat now perches Gorthaur. His form is as fair as it is terrible, with eyes and hair of flame, skin perfect and unblemished. On his brow sits Lómion’s iron crown of blades, and behind him looms a dark figure, the single Silmaril still set in his crown blazing with unearthly rainbows of light. Like a lidless eye, burning with unblinking white light, gazing endlessly into his soul. Lómion tries to scream, tries to run, but there are people beside him, holding him in place. Eöl, still bloodied and broken from his fall, and Aredhel, doll-like and waxen in death. His voice locks in his throat. Someone calls his name. _

_ He's dreaming. Oh. It's time to- _

Lómion jerks upright, breath uneven. Someone gently shushes him, rubbing his back soothingly, and he automatically follows that comfort back, collapsing against Carnistir’s chest as he struggles to regain his breath. Carnistir pauses awkwardly, expression caught between confused and faintly alarmed, before he continues his slightly inexpert soothing.

Once he's collected himself, he shifts equally awkwardly away from Carnistir. There's a stilted pause. Then Veryathor strides up. 

“Excuse me, but I thought you'd like to bathe with some proper soaps. And I need to check your wounds before we head out.” He says, and Lómion leaps at the chance, pulling himself to his feet. 

“Yes, thank you. That sounds lovely.” He says hastily, face stained red with more than just a sunburn. Veryathor leads him a little ways downstream and sits with his back to the river, weaving herbs into bundles to dry while Lómion strips and bathes. Washing with soap is amazing- he can actually get his hair clean. Putting on the burn ointment is soothing, and Veryathor is as gentle and efficient as he had been yesterday with his ointments and bandages. Sooner than Lómion had expected they're back in camp proper. He chooses to pretend the hugging incident hadn't happened, and Carnistir seems happy enough to also ignore it. Everyone is mounting their horses now, and Lómion pauses, slightly awkward. 

“You can ride with me, or Veryathor if you prefer,” Carnistir tells him, and Lómion nods.

“With you, then,” he says, trying to recall when he'd last ridden. Possibly not since the ill-fated flight from Nan Elmoth. He'd never particularly taken to riding, preferring to trust in his own legs to carry him. 

Mounting up winds him, his wound aching, and Veryathor rides up beside them, frowning in concern. 

“I'm alright,” he croaks, leaning heavily on Carnistir’s back. His breastplate is a little uncomfortable, even padded with the thick woolen cloak, but he currently doesn't have the energy to keep himself upright. 

“Let me see the bandages? I just want to make sure you haven't reopened something.” Veryathor requests, and Lómion lifts up the hem of the tunic. The bandages show no sign of soaking through yet, and the pain is a quiet throb. “I'd like to give you a tincture of poppy, for the pain,” he says, and Lómion hides his face in Carnistir’s cloak. Tincture of poppy makes him sick, makes him see things that aren't there. “I thought that might be your reaction, but I had to offer. Buck up, little one. You don't have to take it if you don't wish it. When we make camp I can give you a willowbark tisane instead.” Veryathor nods, and clucks softly to his horse, moving away. Carnistir issues the order to move out, and Lómion clutches his cloak. 

“I'm sorry I didn't consider your wound when you mounted, I should have asked her to lie down for you.” Carnistir says as they start across the river, shifting to stroke his mare’s brown neck. Lómion shakes his head, before realizing that the other elf can't see him.

“I didn't think about it either, until I was already halfway up.” He admits. “I'm not accustomed to riding, in truth. It never suited me.” Carnistir makes a soft sound of concern.

“You're going to be terribly sore at the end of this, then.” He tells Lómion, a touch wry.

“Oh, I am well aware of that,” Lómion gripes, recalling the hellish long ride out of Nan Elmoth. Aredhel had laughed gently at his misery, but she'd also shown him how to massage sore muscles with a soothing ointment. It had been enough to see his mother laugh like that, eyes clear and bright with love and humor. Carnistir laughs, soft and rusty-sounding, and Lómion hears an echo of fondness in that tone.

It's on the tip of his tongue to ask him why he's taking such a personal interest in Lómion’s wellbeing, instead of leaving him in Veryathor’s care, but he swallows it down. He likes this fondness, he's starved for positive affection. Perhaps he reminds Carnistir of his brother- he finds that acceptable. Maybe they look alike? He certainly looks alike to Carnistir, though Carnistir’s skin is more ruddy than his.

Despite his discomfort, he almost falls asleep on the ride, leaning into Carnistir more and more heavily, breathing in the scent of wool and metal, of the soap-scent still lingering in the heavy plait of his brown-black hair. There are fuzzing strands that have escaped his braid, and they shine with a reddish tint in the sunlight. It's very pretty. 

They hear the camp before they see it, though they aren't rowdy. It's just the noise of many people. A frisson  of nervousness makes Lómion press closer, trying to hide himself in the drape of Carnistir’s cloak. He's certainly drawing odd looks.

They reach a wide field and dismount, Carnistir slipping off first before gently asking his mare to kneel down for him. Lómion slides off her back as quickly as he can, stumbling badly, and Carnistir catches him in one arm as his mare climbs back to her hooves. 

“Are you well? Come, I'd like you to meet my brothers before Veryathor waylays us again.” He says, and Lómion blinks up at him.

“I- alright?” He says, mildly bewildered, and stumbles along beside him, shying away from the many people they pass. Finally Carnistir puts an arm and his cloak around Lómion’s shoulders, allowing Lómion some privacy. That garners even more strange looks, but at least Lómion can't see most of them. They slide into what is clearly the command tent with the guards merely nodding to them. Lómion’s heart is beating fast as a rabbit's, he swears. 

There's six other elves in the tent, three redheaded, two with brown hair like Carnistir’s and one with strawberry-blond hair. The two identical redheads look up, and break into sly smiles. 

“Oh, Carnistir!” One starts, clearly affecting a shocked demeanor. The others all look up, confused.

“Why, is that a barefooted urchin under your cloak?” The other twin chirps, and the first pirouettes  over and pushes back his cloak. Lómion flinches. 

“Oh! Carnistir, shame on you!” The first twin wags a finger.

“You never told us you had a son!” Chimes the second, and Lómion feels a surge of bewildered outrage.

“He's not my father!” He squawks, voice cracking in a way it hasn't since puberty. Carnistir gently removes his arm from Lómion’s shoulders, glaring at the twins. 

“No, I'm not.” He confirms, before looking at the strawberry-blond. “Tyelcormo is the most likely candidate.” He says, in a stunning betrayal. Both Lómion and Tyelcormo’s mouth fall open in shock. 

“I never!” Tyelcormo says loudly, as Lómion stares, rendered briefly mute, at Carnistir in surprise. The other elf thought he was- what, his nephew? Carnistir is in the middle of saying something terribly scathing, when Lómion interrupts.

“He's not my father either! My father is  _ dead _ !” He says, perhaps a little louder than he intends to. “I was there when he died!” The tallest redhead looks deeply grieved.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” he says with deep sincerity. Lómion blinks, caught off guard.

“I'm not,” he says blankly, before he can help himself. Everyone, if possible, looks even more confused. Lómion tugs a lock of hair in an unconscious nervous motion he'd picked up from his mother. Tyelcormo’s eyes narrow, and he strides over, inspecting Lómion carefully.

“You aren't mine,” he asserts. Lómion frowns- they'd just confirmed that, yes- “You're Írissë’s kid.” Tyelcormo finishes, and Lómion gawps at him. That had been his mother's name in Quenya.

“How did you know?” He asks softly.

“Your mannerisms. They're all her,” Tyelcormo smiles quietly. “And the shape of your eyes. The way your nose tip-tilts at the end.”

“Everyone always says I look like my father.” Lómion says, soft and raw. This is an unexpected blessing, someone who knew his mother finding her in Lómion’s face. His eyes fill with tears and he ducks his head.

“Where is she? Is she safe?” Tyelcormo asks gently, and Lómion can only shake his head miserably, tears dripping to the canvas below his feet. 

“She's dead too. Father killed her- I mean, he tried to kill me, but mama jumped in the way. It only hit her shoulder, but he'd p-poisoned it. We didn't know in time.” His breath hitches in a sob, roughly scrubbing at his face. Tyelcormo swears roughly, catching Lómion in a tight hug. He smells like dog, and the outdoors, and Lómion shivers through quiet sobs in his arms. He smells a little like Aredhel had. Lómion cries harder, hating himself for the outburst. 

“I should have killed him when I met him,” Tyelcormo growls. Lómion desperately wishes he had, a terrible thing to wish, but he'd gladly have had this elf stain his hands if it meant Lómion still had a mother. 

He quiets after a while, and Tyelcormo doesn't let it become awkward, like Carnistir had. Instead he presses a handkerchief into Lómion’s hands and keeps him close with an arm around his shoulders.

“I'm adopting him,” Tyelcormo declares, bold as brass, and Lómion blinks, befuddled.

“He's an adult, Turco. I hardly think he needs to be adopted. Besides, does he get a say in this?” One of the dark-haired brothers asks dryly.

“Shut up,  _ Atarincë _ . I do what I want.” Tyelcormo sneers back. ‘Little father’? What an awful name. Atarincë grows red in the face, snarling right back at Tyelcormo. The tall redhead strides forward, placing himself between the two.

“Stop it, you two,” he commands softly, and the two subside reluctantly. Impressive. “ _ Curufinwë _ has a point, Turco.” He continues. Ah, that must be the preferred name- wait. Curufinwë as in Curufin? Son of Fëanor? These were his cousins, then. The dubious cousins Eöl had absolutely hated. Maybe he  _ should _ agree to the adoption. That made the tall redhead… Maedhros? Or possibly Maglor. Tyelcormo- oh, Celegorm! Mother’s best friend!- sighs slightly. 

“I guess,” he gripes, and looks down at Lómion. Lómion blinks round, watery eyes up at him. “Well? Adoption, no adoption?” he asks roughly.

“I'd like to get to know you better first,” Lómion offers. Tyelcormo shrugs. 

“That's fair.” He says, and that seems to be the end of it. Carnistir clears his throat. Why hadn't Lómion connected Caranthir with Caranthir Fëanorion? He feels kind of silly now. 

“I am sorry for that assumption,” he apologizes quietly to Lómion. Lómion shrugs.

“I just thought I reminded you of the brother who got captured. What with the similar stories.” He admits, and the arm around his shoulders tightens. 

“You were caught?” Tyelcormo demands roughly, and Lómion flinches away from him. Tyelcormo immediately releases him, and Lómion retreats back to the relative safety of Carnistir. 

“I was Gorthaur’s personal guest since the beginning of spring.” He mutters in the heavy silence. The tall redhead- he's pretty sure that's Maglor- breathes out shakily. Lómion notices that one hand seems to be fashioned out of metal. Ah. It's this brother, then. 

“Damn Þauron.” Probably-Maglor says shakily. Lómion nods quietly- Sauron is the Quenya name of Gorthaur, after all, though the odd lisp he says it with is curious. Carnistir shakes his head. 

“We need a plan of action, before we start plotting vengeance.” He points out quietly. “Once this is done, we can refocus our attention on foiling Þauron and Morgoth.” Probably-Maglor nods, taking a deep, shaky breath. 

“Apologies. I don't think we've been properly introduced. I'm Maedhros Fëanorion.” He says, and Lómion is very glad he hadn't tried to address him. “These are my brothers, Maglor,” the dark-haired elf who hasn't yet spoken waves with a gentle smile. “Celegorm and Caranthir you've met; this is Curufin, and the twins are Amrod and Amras.” The dark haired elf who had objected to Tyelcormo’s adoption plan waves, and the twins both bow extravagantly. He really can't figure out which one is which. 

“I'm Lómion. Maeglin, if you must.” He returns softly. Maedhros nods.

“You may call me Maitimo then. My brothers, in order, Macalaurë, Tyelcormo, Carnistir, Curufinwë, and Ambarussa.” Each brother nods in turn, but the fact that the twins have the same name trips him up. 

“You're both Ambarussa?” He asks with a puzzled frown. Maedhros winces faintly, but the twins nod cheerfully. 

“We are indeed!” The first twin says.

“And we like it that way!” The second twin says, as if clarifying. The entire exchange has a rote air to it, as though they've said it many, many times. Which they likely have, to be fair. Lómion shrugs faintly and moves on with his life. 

“What are you doing here?” Lómion asks instead. “It looks like you're preparing a siege, but that can't be right. The only things you can siege from here are Nan Elmoth and Doriath, and Nan Elmoth, as far as I know, no longer has a leader since my father died.” Lómion says softly. The brothers all exchange awkward looks. 

“It's impressive you got all that from just a look around,” Tyelcormo volunteers. Lómion blinks.

“I did grow up in this area. And my father had considerable political clout. I'd be disappointed in myself if I couldn't figure out what was going on.” He points out. Tyelcormo colors, and both Ambarussa snicker.

“Right. Well, we're sieging Doriath, you're right.” Tyelcormo confirms.

“ _ Why _ ?” Lómion asks, entirely confused. He doesn't like Doriath, to be sure, but that has more to do with his father and King Thingol’s strange relationship. “Thingol isn't my favorite person, but that's a personal opinion.” 

“Thingol is dead. His grandson Dior reigns now,” Macalaurë finally speaks. “And they have laid claim to something that by right and birth belongs to us, and has refused all petitions to return it.” 

Lómion frowns.

“You're sieging an entire city-state because the king refuses to give you a trinket back?” Lómion asks disbelievingly. Macalaurë stood from his seat with a dark look.

“A Simaril is no mere  _ trinket _ , Lómion,” he says, greatly impassioned. "They are the last of our father’s great works, his  _ greatest _ works, stolen by the foul Morgoth! That Dior thinks it his by right of inheritance is pure folly! His mother and father stole it from a thief. This does not make it his to keep!” Color has risen in his cheeks, and Lómion shifts back in the face of that great passion. 

“My apologies,” he says stiffly, uncomfortable. “You speak of the Nauglamir. Why does Dior not set another gem in its place? I'm told it was a beautiful piece before a Silmaril was ever set in it.” He tries to gently defuse Macalaurë, voice dropping unconsciously into one he used to use to soothe his father, and more recently, to flatter Gorthaur. Maitimo stiffens.

“Macalaurë, back off,” he snaps, and Macalaurë, bewildered, obeys, sitting back down with a nearly audible thump. Lómion blinks at Maitimo, equally bewildered. He approaches slowly, extending a hand- his flesh one, not the clever machination that Lómion wants to examine. Lómion feels strangely safe around Maitimo, secure in the knowledge that this is one who knows exactly what he's been through. 

“You don't need to ingratiate or debase yourself to calm my brother, Lómion,” Maitimo says calmly, and in his peripheral vision Lómion sees Macalaurë flinch with a stricken expression. Lómion cautiously sets his hand in Maitimo’s and lets him draw him to his side. He's given a seat and a cup of water, cleverly fashioned from some animal’s horn to have a flat bottom. Once Maitimo has assured himself that Lómion is comfortable, he turns back to his brothers in a way that includes Lómion into the fraternity. Carnistir positions himself close by as well, and Lómion is startled by how comfortable he feels with these two.

“Dior believes, like Macalaurë said, that the Silmaril within the Nauglamir is his by right of inheritance. He is too proud to give it up. We… we swore an oath, one that will see us recover our father’s work… until death renders us incapable.” All of the brothers look uncomfortable, varying levels of regret, anger, and some kind of soured but dear love. For their father, no doubt. 

“What are the words of this oath? Would it be satisfied with only one of the three Silmarils?” Lómion asks curiously. He's heard of the Oath of Fëanor, but he doesn't know the actual words. All of the brothers pause, and then look puzzled. 

“I'm not actually sure?” Maitimo’s voice pitches into a question. Lómion fingers the strap of his satchel. If it's only one, he has a possible solution. Given the history of the Silmarils, and the length of time they've spent in the possession of Morgoth, Lómion thinks they're probably cursed. And that means he's better off getting rid of the one he has as quickly as possible. Macalaurë rises to his feet again, careful to angle his body so that it is clear to Lómion he is at least  _ trying _ to be non-threatening.

"Be he foe or friend, be he foul or clean, brood of Morgoth or bright Vala,   
Elda or Maia or Aftercomer, Man yet unborn upon Middle-earth, neither law, nor love, nor league of swords, dread nor danger, not Doom itself, shall defend him from Fëanor, and Fëanor's kin, whoso hideth or hoardeth, or in hand taketh, finding keepeth or afar casteth a Silmaril. This swear we all:   
death we will deal him ere Day's ending, woe unto world's end! Our word hear thou, Eru Allfather! To the everlasting Darkness doom us if our deed faileth. On the holy mountain hear in witness and our vow remember, Manwë and Varda!" Macalaurë’s voice is quiet, but ringing as he recites what is clearly the oath in soft, lilting Quenya. All the brothers look unsettled, and even a little ill.  Lómion’s brown furrows.

“Wait, you've sworn to strike down anyone who so much as touches a Silmaril? That is what the line about ‘in hand taketh’ means, right?” He asks, truly bewildered and not a little concerned. Maitimo shakes his head, thankfully.

“We've… all chosen to interpret that as ‘in hand taketh’ with the intent to keep. After all, it's clear that we never struck down Beren.” Maitimo replies quietly, a touch awkward. Relief spreads through Lómion’s chest.

“Wait, we have? Since when?” Tyelcormo asks, looking puzzled. Maitimo looks longsuffering. 

“Macalaurë and I debated this a while ago, and we decided that we should interpret it this way.” Maitimo informs him tiredly. The twins perk up and interjected.

“You know it could be argued, since the wording only says ‘ _ a _ Silmaril’-”

“-that the Oath would be satisfied with only one!” Ambarussar say excitedly. The way they flawlessly flow into each other's words makes Lómion wonder if that old saying of elf-twins sharing souls has any merit.

“That won't work.” Macalaurë tells them, and they pout. 

“Why not?” They chorus, and Macalaurë sighs. 

“Because that line encompasses all three Silmarils in its intent. And that particular intent can't be subverted. We must recover all three Silmarils, and we are Oath-bound to kill anyone who keeps them from us.” Macalaurë explains. 

“We never did touch Beren, though. And Thingol met his own fate at the hands of those dwarves. So do we really have to be the ones to kill them? Or is the Oath satisfied if they just die?” Curufinwë asks. Lómion wonders what he's got himself into, and glances up at Carnistir. Carnistir looks down at him with a smirk.

“You've gotten us debating. Time was, we could debate things for hours, and did it for fun.” Carnistir murmurs slyly, and Lómion can't help the crooked little smile he gives.

“I have a question,” Lómion then interjects, and tries not to feel intimidated by the way they all look at him curiously. “Dior is of the Peredhil, is he not? Does that not make him neither of the Elves, nor Men? He is another being all together. So why not just steal the Silmaril from him, and leave both he and Doriath to their fates?” Lómion asks. Macalaurë immediately frowns contemplatively.

“It is true that he was born of the union of a man and and an elf-” he starts, and Tyelcormo frowns.

“Not even that. Lúthien Tinuviel was born of the union of an elf and a Maia, even if she had assumed the shape of an elf. That makes Dior half man, a quarter elf, and a quarter Maia.” He points out. Macalaurë huffs at the interruption, but concedes Tyelcormo’s point. 

“Even then, doesn't he just then fall under all three categories, rather than a new category of his own? There are no reports of any other Peredhil.” Macalaurë purses his lips. Lómion coughs delicately. 

“My cousin, Idril Celebrindal, has wed a man by the name of Tuor. They have a baby, Eärendil.” Lómion informs them. The words aren't hateful, as he had feared. There's a faint, bitter pang in his chest, but nothing more. Macalaurë looks faintly annoyed, but it's obviously not directed at Lómion.

“All right, but do two individuals constitute their own separate race?” He asks instead. Apparently they really do enjoy debating. Lómion weighs his pros and cons. Revealing the Silmaril will definitely make them all shut up, and he's certain no one is going to spontaneously decide to run him through. He definitely doesn't want to keep the cursed thing. The time it's spent in Morgoth’s keeping alone means it's steeped in evil, as far as he's concerned. But he also doesn't want the curse to come home to roost, as it were. He likes these protective, argumentative brothers.

He flips his satchel open and slides the gauntlet onto his hand, before lifting the rag-wrapped Silmaril from the bottom. Carnistir shoots him a curious look. He stands, setting the satchel down, and walks quietly to the table. Everyone falls silent, watching him curiously.

“For your kindness.” He says simply, looking back at Carnistir. The dark-haired elf strides forward and, after looking to him for confirmation, begins unwrapping the silky fabric. The Silmaril falls from the folds with a soft  _ thunk _ ing sound.

It's silent as a tomb as they all stare at the jewel. Lómion looks between them with increasing anxiety.

“If you're going to strike me down for touching it, I'd rather you did it now.” He jokes poorly. That seems to break the silence, as Carnistir drops the cloth atop the jewel and catches Lómion into a hug. Maitimo and Tyelcormo follow suit, and soon Lómion thinks he's being embraced by all seven brothers at once. It's surprisingly nice, if a little stuffy and warm.

“What- or, I mean how…?” Maitimo is the first to speak from somewhere above Lómion- all of the brothers are distressingly tall. 

“It was revenge. Entirely stupid, and more risky than it was really worth, but I was half mad from torture anyway.” Lómion admits, largely to Carnistir’s collarbones.

“Is this also how you came across Father’s sword?” Carnistir asks, amusement threading through his voice. 

“Mantinwë is your father's blade?” He asks, startled. The brothers begin releasing him and stepping back, to his relief. 

“Yes, it is, where did you find it? We thought it lost on the battlefield.” Maitimo says, looking at the sword and sheath belted around Lómion’s hips. 

“I found it in the treasure hoard of Angband,” he shrugs. “I needed a weapon. Though I suppose I should return it, if it belongs to your kin.” The thought of parting with the sword is sad, but if he doesn't want to keep anything of theirs if they swear oaths to kill the people who keep them from them. He doesn't trust them that much yet.

“No, Lómion, I think you should keep it.” Maitimo’s hand is gentle on his shoulder. “You found it for a reason, after all. And you are kin, so keep it and use it well, to protect yourself.” Maitimo smiles softly down at him, and Lómion’s hand falls away from where he'd been about to untie the belt. 

“That being said, Mantinwë needs some repair work, doesn't she?” Curufinwë asks. “I can handle that. I've got her matching dagger, I can refurbish them both and return them to you.” He says, holding out a hand. Lómion frowns mulishly. 

“What if I want to refurbish them myself?” He objects. Curufinwë looks startled, retracting his hand.

“I- I apologize. I hadn't realized you were also a smith.” Curufinwë says awkwardly. Lómion nods.

“Weapons and tools are my trade.” He offers an olive branch.

“I'm officially a jewelsmith, however I am also skilled at weapon- and armor-smithing. I'm decent at a few other trades as well.” Curufinwë returns. Lómion can't help but feel like he's boasting a bit, despite his surprisingly earnest expression, and scowls at him almost reflexively. Curufinwë winces and subsides. Lómion feels a pang of guilt. 

“Anyway- how'd you get this? I thought it was said that Morgoth never took off his crown?” Tyelcormo hastens to change the subject.

“That's right. He was sleeping when I stole it, wearing the damned thing. He favors the form of a giant, so it was remarkably easy to pry the Silmaril from its setting. Since he was injured by my grandfather, it's rumored that he sleeps heavily. And he does- he didn't wake when I stole it.” Lómion indicates the cloth-covered gem. 

“A feat worthy of song,” Macalaurë remarks, and Lómion slashes a hand through the air violently. 

“No it is not, and if any dares to set it to music I will personally see to it that they never rest comfortably again,” he says darkly. “I learned much magic at the hands of my father. Trust me when I say none of it is fair or kind or decent.” Macalaurë subsides, looking piqued. Tyelcormo rests his face in his hands. 

“Kid, you're making it very difficult to play peacekeeper.” He says, rubbing his face. Lómion shrugs elegantly.

“I will not have my desires suborned any longer. I will tend my weapons myself, and no songs will be written about my torture at the hands of Gorthaur.” He decrees, glaring at Curufinwë and Macalaurë in turn. Both of them look away first, and Lómion counts that as victory. “Enough chatter, though. I have shown you that I have successfully stolen one Silmaril, and now you can all sit here with your petty arguments while I go steal a second for you. However distant and unwanted, those of Doriath are still my kin, and enough blood has been shed over the Silmarils.” He says, tone derisive. As much as he likes these elves, their arguments are just that, petty and self defeating. “Don't touch this cursed thing with bare skin. I suspect you will burn from it.” He wraps the Silmaril back up and leaves it on the table, adjusting his gauntlet and giving Maitimo back his cloak. Maitimo stops him with a gentle hand.

“Let me come with you,” he says softly. Lómion doesn't know how he expects to disguise himself. 

“No, Nelyo, I'll go. You'd stick out like a sore thumb, Brother.” Tyelcormo interjects. Maitimo concedes the point with grace. “Come on, Lómi.” 

Lómion lets Tyelcormo herd him away from the tent with a strong hand on his back, too bewildered by the sudden nickname to object. 

“Here we are, the supply tent. Hoi, I need scouts’ outfits for two, please!” He calls to the sleepy-looking elf on duty. The elf springs to attention, and soon they're outfitted in identical second-hand outfits, undyed tunic, wool leggings, soft brown boots, and a green-dyed cloak each. Lómion rolls with it, examining their outfits with a gimlet eye, before deeming them appropriate. They'll pass for Doriathrim in this without too much trouble. Luckily, there's a screen to change behind. 

After that they're given bows, quivers, swords, and satchels of Sindarin make. Lómion isn't too surprised, given this host is a veritable mixing pot, and adds a bundle of multi-purpose tools to his outfit. They'll be useful if he needs to manually pick locks, and he doesn't want to take the whole necklace, because the Nauglamir itself doesn't belong to the brothers. These will pry the Silmaril from its setting. He slips his gauntlet into the satchel along with them. Tyelcormo guides him to the edge of the camp after they've changed, pausing for a moment at a small, slightly shabby tent at the outskirts. 

“Mantinwë will be safe here,” he says, removing his own weapons. Lómion frowns. 

“Curufinwë won't take it?” He asks, knowing he's being unreasonable. Tyelcormo shakes his head.

“My brother knows better than to tread on another smith's toes. He might leave the dagger for you, but that'll be the extent of it.” He assures Lómion. He sighs, handing over the blade, watching as it's stowed carefully with Tyelcormo’s weapons. He fingers the hilt of the Sindarin-made sword. It feels very like the hilt of his father’s sword, and that makes him uneasy. “Should I put on some makeup? Or tint my hair a bit?” Tyelcormo asks, distracting him from his discomfort. 

“No, you should be fine. Between dark-haired and silver-haired elves, the Sindar have a lot more diversity in hair color than they'd like to admit to.” Lómion says, tugging at the end of his own dark braid. “Add that to the fact that I really doubt they'd recognize you, and we should be fine. I'm a little more concerned about them recognizing me. I do look alike to my father.” He absently chews on his lip. Tyelcormo gently pats his head.

“I don't think you do. Your father had a terribly dark mien about him. He was bitter and cruel, and it showed. You aren't like that. You have been hurt, time and again, and it's clear that you struggle with a bitterness of your own, but you don't let it rule you,” Tyelcormo tells him. Lómion ducks his head, blinking back the tears that prick at his eyes. 

“Come on, we should get going,” he says roughly. Tyelcormo nods.

They're equally silent as they slip through the forest like wraiths. Lómion is impressed, Tyelcormo has skill uncommon to the Noldor. He considers how they will do this; doubtless, the Noldor have had the time to gather intelligence while they have waited for their full host to arrive. Lómion’s sanwe-latya has never been very strong, probably due to disuse. It's never been particularly useful to him- it would have been downright detrimental at times, to have that sixth sense, a combination of empathy and telepathy, active in the situation he grew up in. But all elves are capable of it, though Eöl had said with disdain that it was getting increasingly difficult for each new generation. But Tyelcormo is older than he is, so he shouldn't have a problem.

His touch is tentative, blooming slowly from the tight-furled bud he keeps locked in his chest. Tyelcormo’s response is immediate, and a little overwhelming. He wraps his own psychic presence around Lómion like a warm blanket. 

For a brief moment, Lómion is leaning against his mother's side, wrapped tightly in her arms and a blanket, watching the first stars twinkle into the blue-purple velvet darkness of the twilit sky. By the riverbank on a clear summer night, basking in a stolen moment of freedom.

Tyelcormo’s sanwe-latya forms an indirect question, and Lómion snaps from his daze. He'll figure out what that strange warm, half-familiar emotion is later. He has work to do.

He forms a general question of what do we know? And offers his own knowledge of Doriath. Tyelcormo immediately supplies him with information from their scouting ventures. It's fairly clear he leads the scouting division. 

The Nauglamir is going to be in one of two places, they realize. The treasure vault of Doriath, or around Dior’s royal throat. Lómion desperately hopes it's the former. They agree to go forward as though it is. The treasure vault of Doriath lies deep beneath the earth, like most of the city. Lómion dredges up Eöl’s old stories of where it is and what it holds, as Tyelcormo shows him where they've estimated it to be on a map. How they got a map of Doriath, Lómion doesn't ponder; many maps of Doriath exist, for the benefit of children and the easily lost.

They approach one of the gates of Doriath, and act like they're supposed to be there. Tyelcormo drapes an arm around Lómion’s shoulders, and starts giving him hunting tips as they get closer. He catches on quickly, affecting a slightly sulky look; the younger, newer hunter who hasn't caught anything. The guard looks at them and smiles a little wryly.

“Better luck next time!” They say cheerfully, as she waves them in. They're surprisingly lax in their security, given that they have a massive, hostile host camped on their perimeter. Tyelcormo waves to them cheerfully. 

And, just like that, they're inside. Lómion feels a little anxious about how easy that seemed to be, but doesn't let it show. Tyelcormo wraps him in that warm psychic feeling again, and it's starlight on the river and his mother's arms. What  _ is _ it? This is getting infuriating. But he pushes it aside, letting Tyelcormo’s map unfold in his mind’s eye. They walk casually, like they belong. They talk a little bit about the ‘failed hunting trip’, and Tyelcormo is overwhelmingly positive about it. His Sindarin is impeccable, and Lómion is impressed again. 

Slowly, they head deeper, and Lómion hums a spell of misdirection in his throat as they shift personas, no longer the hunter and apprentice, but two fellow guards heading somewhere. The spell just ensures people's eyes see what they want to see, and slide right over them. 

His heart is again beating as fast as a rabbit's, when they pause, loitering, to listen in on two actual guards’ conversation. Slowly and surely they make their way deeper, marking off potential locations, until only one more remains. There is a pair of guards standing on either side of a normal-looking door, and Lómion sends a question to Tyelcormo. How are they going to deal with these two? It's deserted down here except for them. Tyelcormo tells him to keep singing, and takes a pipe, two small darts, and a phial of fluid from his satchel. He dips both darts in the liquid before storing it away again, and Lómion watches as Tyelcormo catches both guards in their unprotected throats in extremely fast succession. 

Whatever it is, it works fast, because they barely even have a chance to pluck the darts from their throats before they're both wobbling, then collapsing to the ground. Tyelcormo pulls out a length of rope, and something in Lómion’s chest that he hadn't realized was tight, loosens. A sleeping concoction of some kind.  _ Not _ poison. Tyelcormo is not his father. His leftover anxiety must ring through their connection, because Tyelcormo looks at him, concerned. Lómion shakes his head, moving forward to help him bind the two. 

“We have to work fast. We don't know when shift change is,” Lómion murmurs, and feels through their pockets. He's in luck, one of them has a slim iron key that looks the same as the doorknob. He tries it carefully. Luckily they keep the door well-oiled, because it opens without a sound. 

“Let's put them inside. Lock them in and leave the key in the lock,” Tyelcormo murmurs, and Lómion nods, helping him haul the two unfortunate guards inside the neatly organized room. They leave the door cracked, Tyelcormo standing guard, and Lómion searches, pulling on his gauntlet. It is a well-organized place, though, and that works in his favor. The jewelry is easy to find, and he ignores everything else in favor of the ornate, perfumed wooden box on the table. Lifting the lid carefully, he finds, unsurprisingly, the Nauglamir.

“I feel like this is going  _ too _ well,” he mutters, and Tyelcormo hushes him. Lómion picks the piece up, examining the beautifully-crafted setting of the jewel, and pulls out the pack of tools. They're not exactly jeweler’s tools, but they'll work. He carefully releases the Silmaril from its setting, looking around for a piece of cloth to wrap it in. There aren't any convenient, so he drops it into his satchel bare, much as he doesn't want to. The tools and the gauntlet follow it in, and he turns to Tyelcormo, nodding. He replaces the Nauglamir and closes the box, hurrying back to his side. They lock the door and leave the key in it.

“We have to hurry now.” Tyelcormo says tensely. 

“Yes, but we still have to act natural,” Lómion reminds him, and Tyelcormo nods. They set off at a pace that says they have somewhere to be, and make their way up. Once they get up to the higher levels, they slide back into their earlier roles, of hunter and apprentice.

All too soon they see guards heading in the direction of each of the gates, and more moving through hallways, eyes sharp. Tyelcormo curses under his breath.

“Guard change came too soon,” he mutters. “They’ll be searching everyone who leaves, now.” Lómion affects a sweet, playful smile. 

“You were going to show me the observatory, right?” He asks at a more normal, but still quiet volume. Tyelcormo blinks down at him in confusion, and Lómion arches an eyebrow. “Don't tell me you forgot,” he whines, sounding utterly dejected. Tyelcormo blinks.

“You know, I had. I'm sorry, nephew. Of course we can go.” He says warmly. Lómion keeps his face straight with only mild difficulty.  _ Nephew _ ? Where had that come from? Unbidden, his mind turns back to the strange emotion he hadn't been able to understand. It can't be love, can it? And yet, it reminds him so strongly of his mother that it almost has to be! Lómion breathes through a wave of panic, thrusting it back. There will be time for that later. Now they need to get out of here. He only hopes his idea works.

They fumble their way up to the observatory, and Lómion breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of the high arches, free of glass to let the treetop breezes through. He tugs Tyelcormo towards a little nook with childish enthusiasm. 

“Look how beautiful it is,” he laughs lightly. It rings true- this is beautiful. A single tower breaches the surface of the forest, and its view is magnificent. However his actual plot is to get Tyelcormo and himself closer to a ledge so that they can just leave by tree. From the corner of his eye he sees a pair of Doriathrim guards emerge from the stairwell, and he pushes Tyelcormo into a little curtained nook. 

An occupied, little curtained nook. Oops. A beautiful blonde elf stares at him, aghast, her dress utterly disheveled by her silver-haired companion, who startled up from where they had been attending the blonde elf’s breasts. Of all the times to accidentally run into a couple canoodling in semi-public.

“Apologies! My uncle and I didn't know anyone was in here,” he attempts, before Tyelcormo shakes his head, pushing Lómion towards the archway.

“Hello cousin. I hear you're going by Galadriel nowadays? Goodbye now,” he says dryly, and Lómion scrambles for the edge, balancing before jumping to the tree as quietly as possible. He hadn't know Tyelcormo had cousins here! He scrambles through the foliage, hearing Tyelcormo right behind him.

“Get ready to run, kid,” he mutters, rather grimly. Already Lómion can hear the rustles of pursuit. He catches his breath and begins furiously humming his misdirection spell. Tyelcormo gets them both back down to the ground and they run. The Doriathrim have the advantage here, but so does Lómion, though his side is burning from exertion. He thinks he's possibly opened up his wound again. 

Soon enough, thanks to Lómion’s relative familiarity with the terrain and his frantic spell-crafting, the sounds of pursuit fall away. Tyelcormo pushes them, though, all the way back to camp, and hustles him into the command tent. 

Veryathor is there with Carnistir and the others, looking disappointed. Lómion shrinks away, behind Tyelcormo. He just looks puzzled.

“Who are you?” Tyelcormo asks, not unkindly. 

“Young Lómion’s medic. You were aware, my Lord, that the young elf has been, until recently,  _ tortured _ ?” Veryathor asks pointedly. “To the extent that he still has open wounds from having to self-drain three large infected ones? What part of this combination makes you think he's up for any of the kinds of shit your brothers tell me you get up to, Lord Celegorm?” The title, in Veryathor’s mouth, sounds like a derogatory thing. Tyelcormo looks over his shoulder at Lómion, who is feeling extremely sheepish. His sanwe-latya folds back into himself, breaking off the bond he'd formed with Tyelcormo.

“Are you serious- you never said you were injured!” He says, but it's not angry, it's worried, and maybe a little exasperated. He shepherds him over to a chair, and Lómion sits obediently, handing over his bow, quiver, satchel, and cloak. Someone gasps, and Lómion looks down to see a spreading red stain along his right ribs. Oops. “Moryo, why didn't you tell me?” Tyelcormo asks angrily, turning to Carnistir. Meanwhile Veryathor has broken out his medical kit, and is gently working Lómion through re-bandaging. Carnistir looks as sheepish as Lómion feels. 

“I believe I forgot also,” he says softly, shooting Lómion an apologetic look. Lómion nods back.

“It's okay. We got what we went for, and we got out without too much fuss.” Lómion says. “That means no one has to fight right now. That means you can leave Doriath alone, right?” He asks. Veryathor looks up, startled. Lómion hastily closes his mouth. Someone- or more than one someone, most likely, sighs quietly. Lómion bites his inner cheek. Veryathor looks over his shoulder at the brothers.

“Has there been a change in plans? Have they given up the Nauglamir after all?” He asks. Everyone looks mildly shifty. 

“Oh, fine. Lómion here did not wish us to slay his kin, and proposed another solution. And undertook it with little input from us. Indeed, he was ready to go completely alone.” Maitimo sounds exhausted, after a fashion. Lómion flushes. “He proposed that we steal it back, with the armies serving as distraction. And, apparently, it worked.” Maitimo opened the satchel after a confirming glance to Lómion, and withdraws the second Silmaril with his metal hand, thankfully. It seems they're heeding him on them being probably cursed. Veryathor flinches away from the light, and Lómion smiles wryly. 

“My thoughts exactly,” he mutters. Veryathor turns back to his bandages, and the twins take out a little heavy velvet bag. Maitimo drops it in, keying it clink quietly against its sister, and Ambarussa draw it tightly shut and tie the cords over the bag. Curufinwë steps forward to claim it with a grave expression. Apparently he has been chosen to keep the cursed things. Lómion wishes him well. 

“We can begin to withdraw again, preferably before Doriath rises against us, if they would.” Maitimo says softly. 

Only one Silmaril still rests outside their hands. 

Lómion’s eyes stray north, towards Angband.

Someday, they will claim it. He feels this in his bones.

“So, Lómi, who do you want to stay with?” Tyelcormo asks jovially. “If you say Moryo, I'm coming too.” He's joking, lightening the mood, but he's also very serious. Lómion smiles whimsically.

“Moryo.” He says, full of cheek. Tyelcormo claps a hand over his heart in theatrical betrayal.

“After all we've been through, Lómi? You want to go with that stick in the mud?” He flails a hand at Carnistir, who looks half a second from smacking him.

“He doesn't call me ‘Lómi’,” Lómion replies gravely, and miraculously, everyone laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> And then Lómion got seven dads! And it was great.
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